“Right. Thar war some Frenchmen hyar’bouts on the creek, five or ten year ago. Injuns got after ’em, an’ they cached their powder under-ground, so’s to save it. Don’t know whether they ever found it ag’in or not, but they always referred to the creek as their ‘Hide-the-Powder’ creek, an’ the name stuck.” The cavalcade turned up the creek, in the rain, and entered among rugged, lofty mountains, their wild ravines and steep slopes thickly covered with brush and flowers. The Cache-à-la-Poudre was crooked, and must be crossed and recrossed; the gun-carriage, overseen by the anxious Sergeant Zindel, and the spring wagon with its precious instruments, were hauled through each time. Thus was traversed first by explorers and map-makers the Overland Stage Route from Denver to Salt Lake. From the head of the Cache-à-la-Poudre they all passed over a ridge to the Laramie River side of the divide here; loomed high, bare and snowy on the west, the mighty Medicine Bow Mountains, which they must go around, and now they encountered a wide Indian trail and sign of Indian travel upon it. XI IN HOSTILE TERRITORY So far the only traces of travel preceding had been those of Indian travel. This afternoon who should appear upon the trail but a large red ox! Had he been an elephant he would have created no keener interest, and both the Frémont party and the Carson party collected about him. “Ma foi!” exclaimed François Badeau. “Mebbe we back in Missouri, hey?” “That’s shuah a big fine ox,” commented Jacob Dodson. “Guess some o’ those emigrants we saw at Kansas Landing are ahead of us.” “Not very close, Jacob,” answered the lieutenant. “The Oregon Trail is a hundred and more miles north, yet.” “Seems to me this ox must have cut loose from his party at the Green, an’ he’s making a short cut back through the hills, for Missouri,” decided Kit Carson. With their red ox in charge the expedition proceeded. It seemed to Oliver rather mean to turn the brave animal about and make him retrace his trail; but in the morning he could not be found, and the lieutenant ordered the men not to look for him. “Fact is,” declared the lieutenant, to Kit, “I’m glad he got away. He’s won his life, so far as we’re concerned. I’d rather starve a while than kill the old fellow and eat him.” “Wall,” drawled Kit, “we’ll see if we can’t do better than pore beef.” Whereupon, as if in reward, that evening he brought into camp a buffalo cow whose fat was two inches thick: the finest buffalo, asserted every man, that he ever had tasted.